


Begin Again

by lucifersfavoritechild



Series: Ironstrange Fics [18]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But He Gets Better, Happy Ending, M/M, Tony is an asshole, With a bit of Drama, and a happy ending!, and a hint of angst, and he falls in love with Stephen!, it's a romcom, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifersfavoritechild/pseuds/lucifersfavoritechild
Summary: Tony waited until he was out of earshot before saying, “Jarvis?”“Yes, sir?”“Who the fuck was that?”Did Jarvis pause before answering? “That’s Stephen Strange, sir,” Jarvis said, with what Tony could swear was the slightest tone of confusion. “Your fiancé.”What the FUCK—||Tony suddenly finds himself thrown into the future, and struggles to adjust to the future - and a fiancé he never met.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Series: Ironstrange Fics [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1095672
Comments: 16
Kudos: 459
Collections: IronStrange Fic by Egg





	Begin Again

— _2012_ —

Tony woke up hungover. 

This happened so often as to be unremarkable in and of itself. Black-out drunk was one of the ways he preferred to end up after a Saturday night (or any other night he can), so he already knew exactly what to do when he woke up: lie and moan in bed before dragging himself down to the kitchen where Pepper had hopefully left a hangover cure for him.

He decided to do just that, staying in bed for at least another half an hour before trudging downstairs, every step a war crime against his head. He stopped when the kitchen came into view, staring.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ He didn’t remember falling into bed with someone last night, but honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time he forgot. Still, it wasn’t like most of his partners helped themselves to his kitchen in the morning. 

The man was standing at the stove, idly checking his phone in between making an omelette and eating from a plate of scrambled eggs. He was good-looking enough, with ink-black hair, pale, unblemished skin, and sharp cheekbones. And he was _tall_ , which was always a plus. What was weird were his clothes. He was wrapped in a sheer, dark-blue robe with a silvery star pattern over a t-shirt — _Tony’s_ t-shirt — and a pair of black sweatpants. Which honestly just didn’t seem like the kind of thing that the guys Tony picked up wore (or at least not while the picking-up happened).

Tony stared for a moment, wondering where the fuck that robe came from since it definitely wasn’t his, before deciding to go into the kitchen, thinking he probably wasn’t going to be abruptly murdered by someone who was going through the effort of making him eggs. 

The man didn’t even bother to look up when he heard Tony come in. “Hey, babe. Gimme a second.” He opened a cabinet and took out a plate, walking around like he owned the place, before flipping the omelette onto it and putting the whole thing in front of Tony. And honestly, this wasn’t even how he ate his eggs, filled with ham and cheese and what looked like peppers—

 _Oh wait_ , he thought when he took a bite, because apparently his hunger was winning out over demanding to know who the fuck this guy thought he was or even the fact that this could be poisoned. _This is actually really good._ Although something was missing—

As soon as he thought it, the man placed a bottle of sriracha in front of him with a smile. 

_Oh, there we go._ All thoughts of his hangover forgotten (in fact, his body hardly seemed affected at all anymore), he dug in, eventually remembering to mutter, “Thank you,” between bites.

The man smiled fondly at him before quickly finishing his own breakfast, checking the expensive watch he wore as soon as he was done. “I have to get ready to go. I have a thirteen-hour surgery today, and I’m not even dressed.” He picked up his phone and swept down to kiss Tony’s cheek before going upstairs. “Love you.”

Tony waited until he was out of earshot before saying, “Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Who the fuck was that?”

Did Jarvis pause before answering? “That’s Stephen Strange, sir,” Jarvis said, with what Tony could swear was the slightest tone of confusion. “Your fiancé.”

_What the FUCK—_

* * *

Okay. So . . . something was very not good.

First of all: it was definitely not 2009 anymore. Trust him. He checked with Jarvis, his phone (which was definitely not his normal phone, for that matter), and the computer. Twice. It was 2012. And he was ninety-eight percent sure that wasn’t the case when he went to bed.

Second: There was something in his chest. Some sort of glowing blue circle thing that also was not there when he went to sleep. 

Third: He was engaged.

_Fuck._

He spent the rest of the day holed up in the workshop, staring at his computer screen and ignoring Pepper’s calls as he descended further into this fucked-up rabbit hole. Apparently, a lot had happened in three years. He started dating a famous neurosurgeon; been kidnapped in Afghanistan; been rescued by Rhodey ( _oh thank fuck, Rhodey still exists_ ), come back with a miniature arc reactor in his chest (on the bright side, _he made a miniature arc reactor!_ ) and shut down the weapons department of S.I.; and again, got _engaged_. Seriously, why was _that_ the one tripping him up? If anything, he’d think he would just feel sorry for the poor dumbass that thought he was husband material. 

_Okay, Tony, let’s think about this logically: you probably just had your drink spiked._ Which, hey, at least that meant it would go away. Possibly only if he died, but it still wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

The other option . . . the other option was that he had traveled to the future. And he didn’t even know _how_.

_Honestly._

* * *

“Are you alright?” Stephen asked quietly from across the table. “I usually can’t pull you away from your gnocchi.”

That sounded true. Tony loved a good gnocchi. But it was hard to enjoy this (admittedly, very nice) Italian food when he was adjusting to living in the future.

. . . OKAY, not _that_ far in the future, but still.

Besides, what would happen if he said the wrong thing and Stephen figured out something was wrong. He didn’t know this guy. For all he knew, his ‘fiancé’ could psychically tell when someone was lying about being from the past. It wouldn’t even be the weirdest thing to happen to him in the past twenty-four hours. 

Instead, he shrugged and said, “I just forgot we were going out and had a big lunch.” Which wasn’t necessarily a lie. He did eat a lot at lunch before Jarvis told him he had a dinner reservation with Stephen. And he was still kind of reeling from those eggs. Maybe he could just get a box . . .

And Stephen was staring at him again. Shit. “How’d your surgery go?” Yes, good, he was pretty sure Stephen said something about that this morning. 

Judging my Stephen’s smile, he was right. “It was a success, of course. She’s expected to make a full recovery within a year.”

Tony raised a brow. “Kind of a long time.”

Stephen scoffed, clearly interpreting his comment as playful goading. “With a spine that close to being completely severed, _alive_ is a hopeful prognosis.” His thumb started absently drawing patterns on Tony’s hand. He almost snatched it back before catching himself. “It was the third time Christine and I used our procedure on someone.”

Christine, was he supposed to know that name? _Come back to it._ “Third success?”

“You know me so well.” He turned Tony’s hand over, playing with the palm now. “What did you today?”

 _Might’ve been helpful to actually do something today._ “I just . . . worked on some prototypes, did some tests.” He shrugged, hoping that would be the end of it.

Stephen was more stubborn than he’d hoped. “Did you try the—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tony snapped. It was a dick move, but he was no stranger to that.

It had the desired effect. Stephen’s eyes narrowed, becoming sharp and ( _Whoops)_ hurt. His hand retreated from Tony’s, and they finished dinner in silence.

* * *

Tony could feel his eyes glaze over. His chest was growing sore. His shoulders were weighed down like they had bricks of lead on them.

 _Torture_ , he thought in horror. _This is torture._

Stephen handed the florist’s portfolio over to him, looking at an arrangement of orchids. “What do you think of this?”

 _I think they’re fucking flowers._ “Nice . . . color.”

Stephen looked at him like it was taking all his strength not to sigh in exasperation at his poor, dumb fiancé. “Those aren’t even our colors, Tony.”

 _I don’t caaaaaaaaaaare._ “My bad. Maybe the . . .” He looked at another page. “Calla lilies?”

“It’s a wedding, not a _funeral_.”

 _Please, baby Jesus, let me die._ “My bad. Didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to have an opinion.” Honestly, he didn’t fucking care what the flowers looked like. He didn’t even care if there was a wedding. The past week had been a juggling act of learning names and events in between handling the expectations of Stephen, Pepper, and Rhodey when half the time he barely knew what they were talking about. Not to mention that he had to catch himself up on everything S.I. had done in the past three years and all his current projects, but honestly, that wasn’t nearly as bad as _what was happening to him now._

Ugh. Stephen was frowning again. “What about roses?” Tony offered.

Now, Stephen didn’t hold back his sigh. “That’s so _basic_.”

Tony could _feel_ his blood heating up. “Do you want fucking flowers or not, Steph?”

Stephen stared at him. Tony stared back. The florist stared at anything _but_ them. 

Slowly, Stephen closed the book and handed it back to the florist, who took it without quite looking at him. “I like the ivory roses for boutonnieres and orchids for the reception. And I’m thinking of white wisteria for the archway at the ceremony. Do you know if that’ll be available at that time of year?”

The florist waited a moment before answering, looking at Tony to see if he would interject. When he didn’t, she started speaking awkwardly. “Well, the wisteria might have to be imported, especially since the color is rare, but with your budget, I’m sure it’s workable . . .”

Tony tuned the rest out, wondering what had happened to him that he’d ended up talking about wedding flowers with someone he’d known for a week. _Maybe this isn’t the future. Maybe this is Hell. I died, and now I’m being tortured._ That made so much more sense. Why didn’t he think of it before?

Suddenly, Stephen was gripping his arm and pulling him out of his chair as their consultation apparently came to an end. _Oh, thank fuck._ His fiancé was smiling through gritted teeth, saying, “Thank you so much for your time. I’m sure we’ll enjoy working together.” Then he was pulling Stephen out of the room, through the building, out onto the sidewalk, where he promptly let go of him. “Get in the car.” He pushed to the Lamborghini. “ _Get in the car._ ”

Tony obeyed.

Stephen got in on the driver’s side, aggressively putting his key in and turning the car on. He waited until they were on the road before ranting. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?!”

Tony felt his hand inch towards the safety handle. “You drive really fast.”

“You are acting like such a fucking asshole!”

“I think it rained earlier, can you—”

“Honestly, what is going on with you this week? It started at that fucking Italian restaurant — which you usually _love_ — and I thought, I don’t know, maybe something happened with S.I. or you just needed a nap because _God knows you don’t get enough sleep!_ But _this_ , acting like a dick when we’re supposed to be getting ready for our _wedding_ — why’d you even propose if you don’t care?! You seemed so excited when we were planning last week!”

 _I_ **_was_** _?_ What kind of hell-version of himself existed in this future? 

“And Rhodey and Pepper told me you’re barely talking to them! Even Christine is worried, and she barely tolerates you! Goddamned—” Stephen forced himself to ease up on the gas so they didn’t go careening off the road. He made himself take in a few breaths, calming down as much as he could. “Do you need to talk to your therapist again? I know you haven’t seen him in a few months.”

Which honestly, sounded even worse than what he’d just experienced. But maybe he could say he’d do it now and then bail later. “That might be a good idea,” Tony said quietly, putting all his energy into seeming contrite and pathetic. “I mean, I thought I was doing okay, but maybe . . .” He let himself trail off, even seeming a bit misty-eyed for a moment. 

Thankfully, it seemed to be working. “I _said_ it wasn’t as simple as going for a while and being cured.” But the bite seemed to be going out of him. “We’ll talk about it later, book you an appointment.” He looked across at Tony, not particularly seeming to care that he was still driving. “But you _are_ allowed to talk to me if something’s wrong, Tony. I love you. You know that?”

Did he? It seemed terribly unlikely that anyone could look at Tony and see anything other than a mess of daddy issues, ego, and money. But hey, maybe Stephen hadn’t realized that. He figured the marriage would last a year, tops. “I know.” Then, to sweeten the pot, he said, “I love you too.”

* * *

Unfortunately, he ended up actually having to go to therapy. Because Stephen had an eidetic memory, and would _not let it go._

He thought he could bluff his way through it, but somehow he ended up crying face-down on the couch, talking about how horrible his dad was and how his mother just let it happen, and his unresolved fear of being unloved for himself. Which were all problems he knew he had, but how dare a therapist make him _think_ about them.

 _Whatever._ He was home now at least, back in the New York penthouse (because apparently, New York was where Stephen lived, and he couldn't/didn't want to move to California; it just got better and better), and if he snuck his way down to the workshop, maybe he could avoid—

"I just don't get it, Pepper "

Nope.

"He's acting completely different, he's been like this for three weeks now!" Stephen sounded frustrated, but also . . . sad. "He's just been such an ass. He acts like he doesn't care about our wedding, about _me_. It's like . . ." He lowered his voice. "It's like before Afghanistan, but worse somehow."

 _Oh . . ._ Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_

Stephen knew something was wrong. Stephen knew something was different, and he was talking to Pepper, and Tony didn't know why he felt like the world would end if they knew, but he _did_ , and now it was happening. Then he was spiralling, his thoughts descending in on themselves like a cave-in. Maybe he would die, maybe they all would, maybe he'd be killed or experimented on, maybe, or God, maybe Pepper and Rhodey would abandon, maybe Stephen, and he didn't know what was happening, he didn't know why he _felt like this_ , why did he go to the therapist, why did he make himself vulnerable, _why—_

A pair of hands landed on his shoulders and Stephen's face appeared in front of him. "Tony? Baby, can you hear me?"

Tony nodded, then shook his head. _I don't know, I don't know what's happening—_

"Tony, I need you to do something for me. Look around, what are five things you can see?"

What? What did that matter? Wasn't Stephen a doctor, didn't he know Tony couldn't _breathe?_

"Trust me, Tony. C'mon we've been through this."

Tony wanted to laugh until he choked. _Not us. Not me._ But he managed to process what Stephen had said. His eyes were watering when he looked around. "That . . . that little side table. The one with . . . metal legs and a glass top." 

Stephen nodded. "Good. Take a breath and tell me four more, okay?"

Tony groaned, but pushed through. "The flowers on the table. They're, um . . . they're blue and purple. And I can see the kitchen counter from here. And the fridge. And . . ." He stared. "Your eyes." Blue-green eyes. How hadn't he noticed them before?

Stephen nodded. "Perfect, Tony, you're doing so well. Focus your breathing. What are four things you can touch or feel?"

Tony heard himself make an almost pained noise before speaking. "My shirt. The wood floor. The wall . . . against my back. Your hands." He breathed in and out.

"Good. Now give me three things you can hear."

It took a moment, but he was starting to come back down to Earth. He said, "My heartbeat. The air conditioning. Your watch." After an uncertain moment, he added, "Your voice."

"Good, Tony, you're almost there. List two things you can smell."

 _Smell?_ He had to think about that one. "My soap. Your hair. With the, the coconut soap."

"Exactly. Just one more. Something you can taste." 

Tony pulled himself up some before saying, "My coffee from earlier. I had a mocha. Extra whipped cream."

"That's it, Tony. Keep breathing steadily, okay? You did so well. I’m here. You’re here.” He looked at him carefully. “Do you feel better? More grounded?"

Shockingly . . . 

Tony nodded. "Yeah." He was still catching his breath, but at least he could breathe. "Yeah, I do."

Stephen sighed in relief, falling forward slightly and pressing his head into the crook of Tony's neck. "Are you alright? Do you need to talk about it?"

"Yeah, I guess . . . therapy just hit harder than I thought it would."

Stephen looked at him with so much simple sympathy and kindness and _love_ that Tony wanted to cry. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Tony surprised both of them by saying, "Yes."

* * *

Tony almost jumped out of his skin when a pair of hands suddenly covered his eyes, only relaxing a moment later when Stephen spoke. “Come to bed, Tony. You’ve been down here for eighteen hours, and I _know_ you haven’t slept in two days.”

Had he? It seemed like twenty minutes since he locked himself into the workshop (a method that apparently didn’t work against Stephen; _damn you future me_ ). He decided to give in now, if only because he was actually kind of tired, and only muttered a little bit as Stephen walked him upstairs to their bedroom. He thought it would take forever for him to fall asleep like it normally did, but something about the steady rise-and-fall of Stephen’s chest and his hand softly carding through Tony’s hair lulled him to sleep in only a few minutes. 

When he woke up, he was spooning Stephen, nuzzling the other man’s neck. He stilled as soon as he realized what was going on, but Stephen was already awake, rolling over with a smile. "Good morning." He leaned in for a kiss. Tony almost pulled back before it could happen, but he remembered himself at the last moment and leaned in slightly, though the kiss was stiff and a bit awkward, like they both knew something wasn't right. He hoped Stephen wouldn't notice.

Stephen noticed.

The doctor pulled away, looking at Tony with eyes that for once, didn't try to hide their hurt. 

“What’s happening to you?” Stephen asked quietly, staring up at him. “I know I’m not perfect, but . . . Tony, I have no idea what I’ve done. Please, just tell me how to fix this. I want to fix it.”

Staring into Stephen’s wide, sad pale eyes, Tony suddenly felt awful. He’d been so busy trying to navigate the future, it was easy to forget that he’d essentially stolen his future self’s body and life. The life and body of Stephen Strange’s fiancé. He must have been so hurt, so _confused_ , and he had no idea why. 

Something dawned on Tony then — he didn’t just need to be better if he wanted to survive. He _wanted_ to be. He wanted to be better for Stephen’s sake as well as his own. 

He started to wrap his arms around Stephen. At first, the doctor resisted, but slowly he relaxed, allowing Tony to kiss him. “I’m sorry,” Tony said quietly, for once genuine. “This has been so hard for you and I didn’t even realize it. Everything . . . S.I., wedding planning, not seeing the therapist . . .” _Being trapped in the future in a body that both is and isn’t my own . . ._ “It’s just stressful, and I was taking it out on you without realizing it. But that’s gonna change. Okay? Right now.”

When Stephen looked at him like that, full of love and hope, Tony believed himself.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Tony did his best to uphold his promise. He went out with Stephen, asked him questions about his work and showed genuine interest, kissed and held him when he wanted it and listened when he needed it. And things were . . . good. Shockingly good, in fact. So much so that he still half-thought that this was an _extremely_ elaborate and long-lasting hallucination.

Things came to a head during a party. They were at the California mansion for once, now less than a month away from the much-anticipated wedding, and celebrating the large-scale implementation of a whole range of medical tech that Tony and Stephen had designed together. Stephen looked radiant in his dark blue and silver, touching his hair and face far more than was necessary in order to show off his engagement ring. Tony watched him with the slightest hint of a smile, still wondering how the fuck this was his life.

He turned away for a moment, standing near the edge of the pool while he talked to Pepper. It took a few minutes for him to realize what it was he felt — contentment. The weapons S.I. once made no longer weighed on his mind like they once did. His tech was still progressing, getting better, more advanced, cheaper and more accessible. He could see a future here, with Stephen. 

Right as he was getting all weepy, the sound of someone falling into the pool exploded through the area, along with a spray of chlorinated water. He turned, chuckling when he saw Stephen coming up in the water, looking around with wide eyes while his legs kicked to keep himself afloat.

Tony good-naturedly rolled his eyes and walked over to the side of the pool, crouching down and reaching out a hand to his fiancé. “C’mon, babe, I’ve got you.”

Stephen seemed to stare at him for a moment before slowly taking his hands, allowing Tony to pull him up. 

Tony watched him, his smile turning fake before he looked around and asked, “Anyone got a towel for reverse-Ariel over here?”

Some people laughed, others looked vaguely uncomfortable, and finally Happy threw a dry and fluffy towel over to him. “Thanks,” Tony said, wrapping Stephen up in the towel before leaning in close to him. Stephen was looking around, not really see anything, his eyes dilated far more than normal. Tony whispered to him, “Do you need to go inside for a moment?”

Stephen’s eyes snapped toward him, almost as if he hadn’t seen him before. He nodded. “Yeah.” His voice was rough and painfully quiet. “Yeah, I’ll just . . . do that.”

Stephen slinked inside, quietly excusing himself to their guests. Tony tried to convince himself to stay outside, to entertain the party-goers and let Stephen handle himself.

Then—

 _Oh, fuck it._ He left in the middle of his conversation, not bothering to say goodbye as he walked inside, looking around. “Stephen?” A few people were lingering in the living room and kitchen, but Tony ignored them, heading upstairs to the bedroom. When he didn’t find him there, it took a moment to figure it out.

He found the hidden door that led to a tiny room just off of the bedroom. It was nothing special, basically a small library that Stephen used to store his medical texts and journals and favorite books. Stephen sometimes hid out there when one of Tony’s work associates he didn’t like was there and he needed to be able to ignore them completely.

Tony knocked quietly on the door. “Steph?” No answer came, but Tony could have sworn that something changed. He opened the door.

Stephen was on the floor with his back to a wall, his eyes stained red from tears. He was a snotty, weeping mess, and Tony realized with a sense of horror and sadness that he’d left scratches down his own neck and arms. 

Tony lowered himself to the floor, crawling over to him. “Stephen? Baby?”

Stephen had forced himself to stop crying when he heard Tony knock. As soon as he tried to speak, he started again, his body wracked by painful sobs. Tony wrapped him up in his arms, tucking the taller man’s head under his chin. Through Stephen’s tears, he heard, “ _Donna._ ”

Tony sucked in a breath. Donna was Stephen’s sister who drowned and died when he was young. Tony had read about her when he was researching Stephen, months ago now. When Stephen fell into the water . . .

Tony squeezed, holding him closer. “I’ve got you, Stephen. I’m here. You’re here.”

They stayed there for the rest of the party, then all night, Tony holding Stephen and petting his hair and comforting him.

* * *

Tony almost crashed the car as he was driving down the road with Stephen, suddenly struck by a realization. 

“Stephen?” Tony said quietly, his voice painfully quiet. “I love you.”

Stephen smiled with good-natured amusement. “Love you yoo, babe.”

Tony shook his head, knowing he couldn’t explain. “No, I mean . . . I really love you.”

“I should hope so. We’re getting married in a week.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.” 

He didn’t. But Tony did, and that was enough.

* * *

— _2009_ —

Tony went to sleep alone in a bedroom in Italy the night before his wedding, and woke up in a hotel room filled with empty bottles of alcohol and half-dressed strippers.

He looked around, staring. He hadn’t drunk anything, but his mouth was dry and his head was pounding. 

He got out of bed as soon as he was sure he could stand on his own. His phone rang, and _Oh, fuck, that’s some bullshit!_

Still, he sighed in relief when he saw who it was. “Hey, Rhodey, what’s um . . . actually, no. Do you know where Stephen is?”

“What?” Rhodey asked, sounding as confused as Tony was. “Who is— nevermind. Just get here already, you’re supposed to be on a plane by now.”

Rhodey hung up the phone, and Tony let it slide from his hand.

* * *

The bartender looked at his dirty and rumpled suit and shadowed eyes, and raised a brow. “Let me guess. Wife kick you out?”

Tony shook his head, drinking his whiskey. “Missed my wedding.”

“Wow. How’d you fuck up that bad?”

Tony shrugged. “Accident.”

“You’ll be lucky to get the couch, if you ask me.”

Tony laughed harshly. “Don’t I know it.”

Slowly, he made his way through the bar’s inventory. He was just about to call Rhodey and beg for a ride when a flash of movement caught his eye. A man in a dark blue wool coat and leather gloves, his dark hair carefully combed and styled, came up beside him, never looking over as he gestured to the bartender.

Tony stared at him until finally the man turned, showing off his sharp cheeks and blue-green-grey eyes. “Can I help you?” Stephen asked with a voice of mild confusion and disdain.

Tony smiled.


End file.
